Fragments of Obsession III

Obsession is not just in longing; it’s also loving him in fragments. Here’s a series of short fragmented thoughts about him—scattered images, sensations, memories, desires. They are pieces of my obsession.

Part one – Fragments of Obsession | Part two – Fragments of Obsession 2

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• His hair gently brushing his forehead, blown by the fan as he sleeps on our bed.
• Him standing on the kitchen sink washing the dishes after dinner. The slope of his bare shoulders, the muscles on his back, the scratches I made, naked except for his dark boxers.
• The way he hums as he unloads the laundry.
• He sits on the couch, shirtless, scrolling through the reels, smirking, chuckling depending on what he watches.
• His prolonged silence after I uttered some cutting remarks.
• The way my eyes drift lower, tracing the shift of fabric, wondering what lies beneath.
• As he passes me on the way to the bathroom, I reach out, my fingers grazing over him in a teasing touch.
• The curve of his shoulder in the half-light when we took a nap in the afternoon.
• The way he stares at me, intense and serious, before he smiles.
• The way his voice cracks when he’s tired, rough and tender at the edges.
• The smell of earth and salt on his skin after rain.
• As he shifts in his sleep, the fabric rides up, revealing just enough to make my breath catch.
• The smell of his skin after a shower.
• His hands, always his hands, calloused and tender, mapping my body in the late afternoon while the curtain gently blew by the breeze.
• His gentle snores, and sometimes he snorted while sleeping. Depending on how tired I am, it either amuses me or annoys me.
• The way he looks at me when he thinks I am not watching.
• I gently kiss his scars on his arms and chest.
• The taste of his lips.
• The heat of his body against mine. The weight of his arm across my waist while spooning.
• The sound of his key in the door. I could hear it jangle as he exited the lift.
• The shadow of his stubble in the morning.
• The sound of his footsteps faded down the hall.
• The way he holds my legs and rests them on his shoulders, his breath mingling with mine as we dissolve into one another.
• The way his mouth finds me, his tongue teasing, drawing a gasp from my lips.
• The way he looks at the ocean and squeezes my hand gently.
• The way his eyes turn dark after a desperate “I love you” right before he shatters.
• The way he says “look at me” right before I unravel.
• The way he moves through a room.
• His pain and grief over the people he couldn’t save.
• The emptiness he leaves behind, a hollow I carry with me, a shape I can’t stop trying to fill.

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